The heavy oak door at the far end of the antechamber creaked and
swayed. It was warped, and the upper part would not let go of the door
frame. At last it flew open. Lord James emerged.
"My dear brother in Christ," he said, moving forward and embracing
Knox. "I thank you that you have come." He drew him after himself
through the warped door, then through a series of rooms until at last
they were in a spacious gathering hall, with windows overlooking a
garden now exuberantly blooming. The hollyhocks swayed in the slight
breeze, and their stalks were as big as a girl's wrist.
The Lord James looked agitated; his brow was furrowed and his eyes
seemed to be looking not at what was in front of him but at something
he could not see. He kept snorting as if to clear his nostrils, but he
did not have an ague or a cold. His nose must be raw, Knox thought.
"What passes in Edinburgh?" he finally asked. Then he gave an almost
inaudible snort.
Knox tried to remember how long ago the Lord James had left the city.
"The Queen is to marry Lord Damley. The banns were called last Sunday.
All goes forward. She will proclaim him Duke of Albany and this is
certain King before long."
"She cannot do that on her own authority!" cried James. "Parliament
must approve and bestow the Crown Matrimonial, as they did with that
miserable Frangois."
"True. But she can still 'name' him King, whatever that means."
"It means nothing. It is a title that is granted as a courtesy, and
will expire at her death. If she dies, he cannot remain King, but will
revert to just plain Lord Darnley."
Knox was uninterested in the eventualities. Why was Lord James so
concerned with them? He studied his face as he continued talking.
"Has my absence caused stir or comment?" he asked. "I withdrew from
her Council and refused to sanction the marriage. Then I left
Edinburgh."
"Your absence has indeed been noted, but what it betokens I know not.
That depends on what it means. What exactly does it mean? If you are
at liberty to reveal?"
James pulled out a heavy carved wooden chair, a legacy from the last
Prior, who had been despoiled of all this by the Reformers. He sat
down in it as if he were under oath.
"I mean to fight."
"In what way? And to what purpose?"
James looked surprised. "This marriage means a Catholic child; a
Catholic child means a Catholic King. We cannot permit this. The
Reformation will be utterly undone. I am surprised nay, shocked that
you would ask."
"And who will fight with you?" Knox wanted particulars, not vague
statements.
"The Hamiltons. They hate Darnley, ever since he insulted their
leader. Kirkcaldy of Grange. Lord Ochiltree, your wife's father, and
their kin."
"Not enough," Knox said.
"Others may join; there are many fence-sitters who may see their way
clear to us."
"Fence-sitters by definition go either way. So you've only the
Hamiltons?"
"The Douglases are kin to Darnley's mother, and hence cannot lend
themselves to the enterprise. Argyll is a possibility, for all that
his wife is the Queen's bastard sister. He would bring many with
him."
"The Erskines?"
"Hard to say. They've a personal attachment to the Queen, but they are
committed to the Reformed Kirk. Lord Ruthven, the Lindsays ... we can
count on them, I believe. Possibly Glencairn."
"And on the other side?"
James opened a silver reliquary that had once housed Saint Medard's
teeth the patron saint of those with toothache and drew out a paper.
"The son of George Gordon, the late Earl of Huntly, himself George,
remains locked up and can do nothing for either side. The Setons, the
Beatons, the Livingstons, the Flemings, the Maxwells, the Earl of
Atholl all will support the Queen. But they are lesser figures. Only
Atholl is an earl."
"But added to the entire Douglas and Stewart families, they make quite
a weight. And then there's the Earl of Bothwell, traditionally loyal
to the crown. He has sneaked back into Scotland and may be looking to
win favour with the Queen." Knox shifted in his chair. These massive
carved seats were works of art, but decidedly uncomfortable. "Now, God
forgive me, but I must ask: there is one name that can assure our
success, and you have not mentioned it. Where stands the Queen of
England on this?"
"She has been discreetly silent."
"As always."
"But I believe she favours our cause and will support us, if not with
troops, most certainly with money."
"On what do you base this belief?"
"She has reacted vehemently to the Damley marriage. She does not want
a Catholic king in Scotland."
"Perhaps not. But" now here was the crux of the matter, the one
question that above all must be answered "what else can you offer her?
Have you another ruler more suitable to her tastes?"
James sighed. He opened his lips as if to speak, then closed them.
So he sees himself as king, thought Knox. But at least he has the good
sense not to blurt it out. Or perhaps not even to speak the words to
himself.
"The Lord will provide," James finally said.
"The Lord can only make the same selection as the rest of us. I see no
other alternative to the Queen. She is the last remaining royal
Stewart. Now, if the idea of royal blood is dispensed with altogether,
many interesting possibilities arise. Directed by the Holy Spirit, we
could elect a ruler. As the Vatican claims the Popes are elected." He
laughed dryly.
"Aye. Perhaps." James gave a tentative smile.
So that's the route he foresees, Knox thought.
"But the English Queen will never permit this," Knox pointed out. "For
she herself must, perforce, honour the concept of royal blood being
somehow different from all other blood. Without that, she herself has
no claim to the throne. Her title was not based on unchallenged
legitimacy, nor on Parliamentary permission, but on the magic of royal
blood. She'll not support your rebels."
"I have royal blood, too! As much royal blood as Queen Elizabeth!"
cried James. "Both our fathers were kings, both our mothers
commoners!"
"With this difference: Elizabeth's father married her mother and had
her crowned Queen."
"Then he repudiated her and executed her!"
"Nonetheless, a form of ceremony was gone through. The Pope does not
recognize it as legal, but that has become her glory." Knox had a
sudden thought. "You do have enough royal blood that, were you to win
in this attempt to unseat the Queen, it could be conveniently
recognized. But" he glared at James with his bright brown eyes "first
you must win."
A few hours earlier, whilst Knox was still in bed at the merchant's
house at St. Andrews who had offered him hospitality prior to
preaching his sermon, Mary had arisen and put on a great mourning gown
of black with a wide mourning hood the gown she had worn to the
memorial mass ending her forty days of deep mourning for Francois. She
had worn it many times since then, and each time she had felt that in
so doing she was coming back to Francois and saying, "I have not left
you, and I never will." Now, on her wedding morning, she felt
compelled to wear it for the last time, to have Francois present at the
marriage, to give his blessing and release her. Only Francois could
give her away.
At six o'clock in the morning, the Earl of Lennox and the Earl of
Atholl came to escort her, one on either side, to the chapel at
Holyrood. She came slowly down the long aisle, where the priest was
waiting, and then Darnley stepped forward and took his place by her
side.
Quickly the final banns were read, and quickly they repeated their
wedding vows to one another. Darnley took a triple ring with a diamond
in the middle and side rings of red enamelled gold, and at the words,
"With this ring I thee wed," he slid it on her finger.
"I now pronounce Henry, Duke of Albany, Earl of Ross, and Mary,
Sovereign Lady of Scots and the Isles by the grace of God, to be man
and wife indeed," said the priest. The sound echoed throughout the
chapel.
"Te Deum laud emus Riccio exclaimed. "It is done and cannot now be
broken!"
Mary and Darnley turned to him and embraced him as the only confidant
for their secret betrothal.
Mary allowed herself to be escorted back to her chambers, there to lay
aside the mourning clothes, never to resume them. The Marys pulled out
the pins and, with solemn respect, helped her to disrobe. They laid
the mourning cloak out on the bed and folded it almost tenderly,
putting sweet herbs along its length. Mary leaned forward and kissed
it before allowing it to be closed in an embroidered satin bag.
Mary Seton saw the tears in her eyes and, drawing her aside, away from
the gay chatter, embraced her. "You honour Francois by your tears of
loyalty and remembrance. But, my lady, he died in the flower of youth,
leaving you to grow older without him. The young you will always be
his wife. But you are a different woman now and that part of you, the
part that has arisen since, is not disloyal to love the Lord
Darnley."
"Think you this is so?" whispered Mary.
"Lady, I know it." She reached out her hand and wiped away one small
tear on Mary's cheek. "Now go to your new lord and husband with
gladness."
Mary clasped her hands and then let them go. "I am both more happy and
more sad than I have ever been. Is it possible?" she murmured.
"Yes. I can see it is so. But, pray you, the Lord Darnley must not
see your tears." Seton wiped away the next gathering of them. "Your
bridal gown awaits!"
Fleming and Beaton were bringing out the scarlet gown, embroidered with
pearls and gold thread. It was stiff with richness.
Mary allowed herself to be fastened into it and then put on her finest
jewellery: her black pearls and the Great Harry, and huge pearl
earrings from the oceans beyond India. The Marys brushed her hair and
then fitted a pearl-encrusted satin cap upon her head. The rich hair
spilled out behind it.
There was dancing and a formal dinner, followed by trumpets and the
distribution of largesse in the courtyard, then a supper. Mary and
Darnley twined round one another in the stately dances played on the
slide trumpets, recorders, and violas. Darnley never took his eyes
from hers, staring at her as at a goddess or an apparition throughout
the long day.
At length, after the formal dinner, three separate dances, the supper,
the trumpets, the largesse, Mary and Darnley took their leave of the
company, making their way to her apartments and finally to her
bedchamber.
There were no attendants, by her command. When they shut the doors
they were completely alone.
Candles burned in all the sconces, and a large candelabrum of French
workmanship stood on her work desk with ten white tapers. She came to
him and embraced him. She had meant to say something, but there were
no words worthy, no words to express her feelings both of final sorrow
and of the release from it, the finding of her new treasure.